Gracie
by former-burning-example
Summary: Your girl was gone. AU. Two-shot. Rizzles. Complete.
1. Isabelle

.

.

 _you seep in the windows and the vents,_  
 _while i lay in the grass and i lose your scent,_  
 _well, if god gave me grace, then why aren't i graceful?_  
 _my joints are frozen, cold, old, and idle.  
 **\- coca-cola / brand new**_

 _._

 _._

Fragments of her curl behind your eyelids, so young and small.

 _Isabelle_.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your breath stopping completely. You can almost hear the shallow laughter that carried her through her last days with you. The days spent with faltering smiles and sympathetic shakes of the head in the break room. _Everyone_ knew. Everyone knew she was fading. You told yourself everything was fine.

Your head drops into your hands, fingers pressing into your temples, seeking some kind of relief.

The cold around you is unrelenting. Like teeth sinking into your exposed flesh, your bare arms and neck. The sting doesn't faze you. Doesn't jar you. Your body buzzes like white noise trying to distract you from the blood frozen in your veins.

You promised her life.

Played god when you had no place.

You failed her.

..

.

 _You're so late._

 _A late night blackout reset your alarm clock, making you later than you've ever been in all your years of attending. You get dressed in less that thirty seconds and grab a granola bar for the drive, knowing full well that you're going to be kicking yourself later._

 _._

 _Someone stole your spot. You would never guess, but you're willing to bet your entire paycheck it was Dr. Pike. He's your only competition for the chief resident position and you just_ know _he's doing everything in his power to make you crack under pressure._

 _You tighten your grip on the steering wheel as you circle around to the back. He won't get to you. You won't let him._

 _._

 _Despite your rush, you tread carefully on the sidewalks. Ice tends to be unforgiving, and the last thing you need today is to lose your footing. You thank your lucky stars you remembered a jacket in your hurry this morning. You may have forgotten to lock the front door, but hey, at least you have a coat._

 _This job is tearing you apart. It's been tearing you apart for almost ten years. You could fill a series of novels with reasons why you should give it all up, but the reasons you need to stay can be counted out on one hand._

Isabelle.

 _She's one of them. The only one that matters._

 _The sweetest little princess. Her smile... it makes your day that smile. Each and every day it breaks through the hazy drear clinging to the Oncology Ward. Your little ball of light, so happy despite her body's best efforts to drag her down._

 _You're not supposed to choose favorites._

 _You're really not._

 _But little Isabelle stole your heart months ago, and now it's hers forever._

 _You stay in it for her. You endure forty-eight-hour shifts and sexist doctors who think you're a woman in a man's world. In over your head... you do it all because at the end of the day you get to check on her before she goes to sleep. You get to see the new picture she drew for you or listen to her pretend to read you a book one of the nurses brought for her if she's feeling well enough._

 _Other times she sees you, but you're unsure she really_ sees _you at all. Sometimes the only thing you can do is squeeze her hand and whisper reassurances. 'You'll feel better tomorrow, beautiful.' or 'Maybe your mother with visit you, would you like that?'_

 _You jam your hands further into your pockets. The mere thought of her mother lights a fire inside of you that burns on your exhaustion. That woman stopped visiting two months ago. She calls on Thursdays... sometimes. It's completely awful of you, but you're relieved when she doesn't. She doesn't do anything but work up the little girl._

 _You love her, and you tell her. You really shouldn't. It's unprofessional, but one day she asked, and lying to those big brown eyes simply wasn't an option._

 _You love her enough to make up for her mother's absence, but that doesn't stop you from wondering about the woman. Do the letters ALL mean nothing to her? Does Isabelle mean nothing to her?_

 _A wave of heat washes over you as the automatic doors slide open, pulling you back to your element. You feel the same as you did when you left: exhausted. But you have to pull yourself together. You just_ know _Tierney favors you over Pike for the position. Now all you have to do is prove you can handle anything._

 _._

 _You're the only one in the locker room, but you prefer it that way. You can get your head on right in the silence. You're late, not dying. It's_ okay. _You haven't sabotaged your career. It happens to the best of them, and you're Maura Isles. You're the best there is._

 _Pulling your sleeves up a little at the elbows, you start to head out, stopping for just a moment. Overcome with the feeling you've forgotten something, you pat your pockets, but it never hits you._

 _It probably wasn't important anyway._

 _._

 _Upstairs, the halls are for the most part empty, and you get that feeling of unease again. The base of your spine tingles as you hurry to the nurse's station. Maybe you're missing something._

 _You recognize the nurse behind the counter as Gladys. She's one of your favorites solely for the reason she can tell the difference between a fibula and an esophagus. She's a sharp one, she'll know what's going on._

 _"Good morning, Gladys, you wou-"_

 _"Dr. Isles?! What...?" She stands and leans over the counter to peer down the hall. "Shouldn't you be down there?"_

 _"What? I- I was running late. What's going on?"_

 _She crosses herself and you already know what she's going to say. You take off at a run- no, a full-on sprint._

 _"102," she calls after you, confirming the horror in your mind._

Isabelle.

 _._

 _You run. You run so fast you nearly miss her room._

 _Your fingers catch the door jam and you force yourself to take those two steps back. And as the frantic mess of blue and white clouds your vision, the urgency in Pike's voice and the cries of the machines have your world toppling out of balance._

 _A nurse moves out of your way, and you see her. You see her body moving only with Pike's compressions._

 _"... thirteen, fourteen, fifteen."_

 _A pause._

 _"One, two, three-" you can no longer hear them. Instead, you rush to her. Your baby is fading._

 _"Where were you? I paged you a dozen times!" someone says. Someone_ yells _at you, and it hits you like a ton of bricks._

 _Your pager. It must have fallen out in the locker room._

 _She's dying._

 _You wait for Pike to complete his compressions before you shove him away from her and resume where he left off. He wouldn't save her right. He doesn't care. He doesn't love her. It wouldn't matter to him if she died._

 _One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

 _You think of her laugh. On her good days, she sounds so much like the children you hear in when you jog past the park- happy and full of life. "Isabelle, baby please."_

 _Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten._

 _"Come on, beautiful. It's okay."_

 _Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen..._

 _"C'mon, it's okay. You're okay," you promise her even though you know full well you have no right to promise her anything. You never did._

 _Fifteen._

 _You stop for a moment. You've done this a million times. But it's never felt like this- you start compressions again. You can sense the droop in shoulders around you, but you can't stop. You won't stop. There's a chance._

 _She'll come back to you._

 _She_ will _._

 _"C'mon, Isabelle," you beg. A tear lands on your hand and you know you must be hysterical, but you_ can't _lose her. She's all you have. You're all each other have._

 _._

 _Someone pulls you off of her._

 _You're not sure who, but you still lash out. They're taking her from you._

 _"Let me go! I can save her!" you try to break out of the arms that hold you at bay, but you're exhausted and weak. "Let me go!"_

 _"Dr. Isles! You have to let her go! You have to calm down!"_

 _But you can't._

 _You fight._

 _"You're not even trying!"_

 _He lets you go, and you spin around to go back to her, but he grabs your shoulders and forces you to look him in the eyes, "There's nothing we can do, Maura. You have to let her go." Tierney. Your boss. The man with the greatest medical mind you've ever seen, and he's giving up?_

 _"There has to be_ something _!"_

 _"There's nothing. Maura, I'm sorry. She's gone."_

 _You argue until you're removed from the room. Tierney tries again to apologize and explain to you what you already know. But you're stuck: He didn't save her._

 _"Maura," he puts a hand on your shoulder, but you step away letting it fall back to his side._

 _"You could have done something. There's_ always _something."_

 _And with that, you leave. You walk right out into the December deep-freeze with those words hanging as your last. But what you really meant was 'I should have been here.'_

 _.._

 _._

Your teeth are chattering now.

You're our of adrenaline, but you don't care. You just keep replaying everything over and over again in your head. The frantic nurses. Your sweet girl beneath Pike's hands. Your heart clenches, and you know the feeling. Like a fresh wound reopened for no good reason. The emotional ache that feels anything but in your head.

It makes you think of Jane.

But thinking of her reminds you of cracked ribs and stolen lungs. Of speeding trucks and collision. The thought is far too much to bear. Especially now. But you can't stop. Your fingers dig further into your temples, breath swirling out of you a column of thin vapor.

Jane Rizzoli is a topic you've left unthought-of for much longer than you care to admit. Because you don't like to remember a certain sort of tragedy. The kind where it's your fault.

Where it's all your fault.

.

You feel a hand on your shoulder, and you want to scream. You want them to leave you alone. All of them.

"Maura, come on let's get you inside." It's Gladys. Such a caring woman. You wish you never befriended her. That way she'd leave you out here to rot.

But you go with her, not because you want to, but because your brain knows you don't want to die out in the cold tonight.

"I've already called your wife, honey. She's on her way," she says, squeezing your hand before letting you take your pick of waiting room furniture.

It takes you a moment to register what she's told you, but you still don't have it all, "I'm sorry?"

"Your wife. I called her. She's on her way."

"My wife?"

"Yes. I called Jane... Dr. Isles are you alright?"

 _Jane._

You drop your head into your hands again. She called Jane. Of course, she did. Her number is still your top emergency contact. She's still your wife. Only you haven't seen her in almost two years, and something tells you she's only doing this because she still cares enough that you get home safe.

"I'm sorry about Isabella."

"Isabelle," you correct, wanting to tell her she doesn't even know the half of it, but you can't summon the energy. "Her name is Isabelle."

..

.

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _A/N: For detectiveisles, we had a good run, but I do a lot of idiotic things. Thanks for your help. It meant the world._

 _For everyone else, I know it seems dreary, but it looks up... I promise._


	2. Goodbye

_Your girl is a dancer._

 _Sometimes your wife likes to joke she could dance before she could walk even though you know that's impossible._

 _But seeing her on stage, there's no argument. Your girl is a dancer._

 _You remember that first ballet lesson you took her to when she was just three years old. She absolutely loathed it. She hated the rules, the uniformity, the firm, unbreakable structure. You remember in that moment she reminded you so very much of her mother._

 _But you didn't give up. Like Jane, you could be stubborn too. You took her to every dance studio in Boston just trying to find something_ right. _But none of them were. None of them had some particular thing she seemed to be searching for, and she wasn't afraid to let you know. The memory makes you smile a bit._

 _But now, four years later, she's found what she was looking for._

 _._

 _Sometimes on those cooped-up rainy nights, you'd peer through the crack in her bedroom door and catch her dancing and spilling out some nonsensical story in a whisper as she moved about her room, elegant and fluid. It was then when you knew the only teacher she would ever need is herself._

 _Jane squeezes your hand, bringing you back as you both look up to the stage from your front row seats._

 _Ballet was never for Gracie._

 _She had more to tell than a story set in stone. She wanted to show the world a haunting tale worth losing yourself in._

 _The lights dim, and a single spotlight floods her stooped form. This is her moment. This dance she's spent months orchestrating all on her own. You feel a sense of pride bloom in your chest. Up there, that's_ your _girl, and she's about to steal the show._

 _The music begins soft and melodic and with it her dance. Slow and graceful with certain staccato hints of quick intensity. She's created a story all her own, and you've never seen anything more beautiful._

 _.._

 _._

Someone shakes you awake, but you're accustomed to the feeling. Around here, you're lucky if you're not needed long enough for a nap. You're used it. Just not the eyes you see when you open yours. It's not possible. Actually, it's completely possible. You knew she was coming, you just didn't let yourself believe it.

"Jane?"

"Hey," she smiles a little and nods once, but that's all you get.

You look away from her. You have to. "I'm sorry they called you."

She just shrugs, "You needed me."

You miss her so acutely your brain seems to fizzle and miscalculate. You slump against the back of your chair. The look in her eyes is unreadable, but she extends her hands and helps you to your feet anyway. She's was always so _good._ That's what you loved about her.

That's what you _love_ about her.

In truth, it was her choice. She didn't want to see you anymore, so you honored her decision. You hoped she would call you after a week and together you'd figure out a way to get through it. But she never did. So you took matters into her own hands and called, but she wouldn't pick up. She wouldn't return your texts or emails. You even wrote letters. You'd do anything to tell her. To show her you were sorry and that you meant every word.

But then you gave up, and you let her go. It was the second stupidest thing you've ever done.

"C'mon, I'll take you home."

.

She knows the way.

Of course, she does. It wasn't that long ago she drove almost this exact route every night to come home to you. The radio plays some rambunctious rock song, but she has it turned down so low it almost sounds soft and pleasing.

You wish it would end immediately.

"Do, uh... Do you wanna tell me what happened?"

"I... I..." Gracelessness. You seem to have a lot of it tonight, but you press the heel of your hand to your forehead and lean back against the headrest anyway because there's only absolute you let yourself believe in. Talking to her helps. Somehow it helps.

You grit your teeth and swallow your awareness of the sickness in your stomach. She came all this way to take you home, she deserves an explanation.

The words dislodge and fall out of you like stalactites that could no longer hold on.

"I lost a patient."

She nods, but keeps her eyes on the road, "That's what the nurse said."

"Yeah," you prop your elbow against the door and rest your temple against your fist. What else could you say? She was so much more than just your patient, but Jane never knew her. She wouldn't understand.

She takes a hand off the steering wheel and silences the radio. The silence that settles in after has you shifting in your seat. It wasn't always like this. It used to be easy. Comfortable. Effortless.

"Maur, god... Maura, I'm sorry."

And for a moment you think she'll reach over to you. For a moment you think she'll forget about the denotation of 'separated.' For a moment...

But she doesn't. She can barely stand to look at you, and you know it. You would give everything you have- every cent you own, your last dying breath, everything to just let her know you're sorry. You're _sorry_. But you can't find the words and she's probably not listening anyway.

"Thank you," you whisper, but it does nothing to dull the crystal clear picture of your baby girl growing dimmer. Or to take away the feeling of her lifeless body from the palms of your hands.

 _Isabelle_

She's gone.

She's really gone.

.

She pulls into your drive.

You are grateful she spares the both of you the awkwardness when she gets out of the car. At the very least, she'll see you to your door, and that's enough. Probably.

Maybe.

Not at all.

Jane remembers where the spare key is hidden, but of course, she would. It was her idea to keep it beneath the frog planter.

She unlocks the door for you, and all you want her to do is come inside and pick up where you left off twenty months ago. What an inane thought. You almost smack yourself. You broke your marriage, and at this point, you're almost certain you'll never find a way to mend it.

"Thank y-" you start, but your 'you' never sees the light of day. You close your eyes and try to take a breath, but it never comes. Instead, you choke on it, the tsunami you've been holding at bay breaks through your stronghold.

You're sinking.

You feel your chest convulse, a pain so acute you have trouble feeling it among the havoc raging inside of you.

It feels like an eternity before a lifeline befalls you. No, not a lifeline. A person. She's just a person, she can't save you, but she can try. That might be all that matters.

.

You remember her well. The way it feels to be held so tightly there's simply no room for anything else. All you can do is hold on, enslaved by the sobs you cannot account for.

Somehow she gets you inside.

She remembers you too in the way she just holds you. She doesn't try to comfort you or fill your head with cotton words and thin reassurances. Jane knew before even you that the last thing you need is to believe in something so hollow.

A myriad of images flicker behind your eyes and embed into the inside of your skull. Each one stealing away with another piece of your vitality.

 _Isabelle._

 _Jane._

You curl your fingers into her shirt, the soft material so meaningless in your grasp, but you _can't_ let go. You don't want to float away. To disappear.

You want to stay.

But Isabelle's laughter echoes in your ears, a memory so clear it makes you sick. You'll never hear it again. You'll never _see_ her again. Can't hold her hand or kiss her forehead. Your ray of sunshine darted behind a cloud you cannot locate. You're alone.

You lost her.

Jane's breath puffs against your cheek, and you know this must be impossibly difficult for her. To look at you. To touch you after all this time. _She_ didn't want to see you. You're not certain why, but it must have been unbearable. You can barely look at yourself in the mirror. How she feels? You couldn't imagine.

"Maur," she whispers, and the all white noise dies completely.

You can't help but look up at her. If anything, these two years have only made you love her more. In a severely _broken_ sense of the word. But it's the pain in those brown eyes that finally pulls you into _now._

Her palms flatten against your back. She's going to let you go.

"I'm sorry," the words tumble out on their own accord, and they don't stop at one. "I'm so sorry, Jane... I'm sorry."

The phrase loses all meaning.

She steps back, untangling herself for you, and you wait for those severing words that have danced at the edge of all your nightmares. Your back finds the wall behind you, and you brace yourself... for anything. Words like daggers. Heavy silence. You expect her to leave.

But she doesn't. She just pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs deeply. The anticipation is killing you but think you might deserve something of the nature.

"She looked like you."

 _Gracie. Gracie. Gracie._

She did. Your clone, as Jane once called her. The likeness was simply uncanny, and you finally understand.

"Every time I look at you..." she whispers, trailing off because there's no easy way about any of this.

Your girl. Your beautiful girl lost to the world.

 _Gracie._

And it's all your fault.

You whisper the words again, this time adding the only thing that could ever give them any meaning.

"I'm sorry for Gracie."

..

.

 _It was one of those last-minute Christmas trips you absolutely loathe. The lines, the chaos. The shame that comes with being a part of this mad crowd of people who wait until the last possible day to pick out gifts. An outing like such was unheard of in the Isles family._

 _It was the very definition of the Rizzolis._

 _But Jane never did anything halfway._

 _She sent you and Gracie to search through the withstanding shops for gifts for Angela and her brothers. You knew exactly where she was going. A friend of hers was holding Gracie's present in the toys store, and you thought that maybe she was more excited about it than the frightened seven-year-old clinging to your coat._

 _"It's okay," you'd told her, offering your hand. Your girl only hugged you tighter. The frantic mess of people around you both was terrifying her. You could see it in her face._

 _Despite the crowd, you lowered yourself to her level and gave her the best reassuring smile you could manage._

 _"It's okay, baby."_

 _Your girl never liked words much. She only shook her head._

No, Mom. It's not.

 _You sighed, thinking about the pending conversation with Jane later. You'd have to tell her that these last-minute trips needed to stop. That your child is deathly afraid of losing you in the crowd._

 _Across the street, you spotted a cozy-looking coffee shop that looked empty enough. An idea jumped into your head then, and you almost praised yourself for it._

 _"How about we go there?" You point, and she follows your finger with razor sharp focus. "You can get a hot chocolate."_

 _She nodded with zeal and took your hand._

 _._

 _The crowd of people wanting to cross the street at the exact moment as you was unbelievable. By the time the light changed you're certain there wouldn't be enough time for everyone to cross._

 _You just didn't know how right you were._

 _Gracie squeezed your hand tight, and you noticed she kept looking up to make sure you were still_ you.

 _Then suddenly the people in front of you started to part almost violently. Warning bells chimed like mad in your head, but you couldn't see the source until it slammed into you. Literally. The moment was a mix of collision, confusion, and ice harder than asphalt._

 _Your vision darkened for a moment as you righted yourself. When you opened your eyes, a deranged shopper was climbing off of you already halfway to the next sale._

 _Someone pulled you to your feet, but you didn't have a chance to thank them before panic set in._

Gracie. Where is she?

 _You spun around and around, searching the crowd on all sides._

 _"Gracie?" you called out, dizzy from your fall. You hit your head, but that didn't stop you from running to the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop and shouting her name over and over again. "Gracie? Gracie, where are you?"_

 _And then you saw her._

 _In the middle of the crosswalk._

 _"Gracie!" you yelled, starting towards her. She turned to you and smiled, relieved to have found you._

 _But you couldn't get to her. You couldn't get past the people with Christmas and dollar signs on their minds. You just wanted your baby._

 _"Gracie!"_

 _It happened too quickly._

 _The blare of the horn was deafening in your ears. The screeching brakes and tires scraping against ice, the arms of some stranger that pulled you our of the way before the truck could hit you._

 _The sickening thunk._

 _Your girl was gone._

 _.._

 _._

 _._

 _'I'm sorry for Gracie.'_

It resonates in the air between you, filling the room before fading into nothing. Outside, the sun is rising. The day is officially starting, but you can't find it in yourself to join with it.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," you say, covering your face with your hands. You can hear yourself screaming her name. You can still feel the exact moment her hand stopped squeezing yours. "I... I should have held onto her."

"Oh god, Maur... No..." her hands find your arms. "Look at me."

But you can't. You can't face her. Your daughter is dead because you let go for just a second. That second meant everything to you. Thousands pass you every day, but none of those will ever fix the only second that mattered.

"Listen to me, Maura." Her words are strong. "I _don't_ blame you. It was an accident. Do you understand?"

It's your fault. You know it is. It has to be. Because if it isn't then why did she leave you?

"Will you look at me, please?"

You lower your hands to your sides and try your best to resist the urge to cover yourself again. The old you would hate what you're doing now, but you can't stop it. Her gaze holds yours easily, and you search for anything that could lead you to believe she doesn't mean what she's telling you.

"It's not your fault, okay? There was nothing you could've done," her eyes are serious. Jane would never lie to you. You're still not sure you believe her, but you nod anyway, safety flooding over you as she collects you in her arms again.

"I miss her," you admit. "I miss her so much."

"I know. I do too," she whispers. "I'm sorry I made you feel like this... I didn't know what to do. There wasn't a way to talk about it... I dunno." She squeezes you tighter and you feel a small part of yourself clicking back into place. "I shouldn't have left."

With everything around you, you still ache for Isabelle. She was you only friend in this time of deafening loneliness. That little girl loved you despite everything you've done, but now she's somewhere out of range. You want her back. You want to hug her in your arms and promise her a tomorrow. A next Wednesday. A Christmas four years from now.

"I missed you." Simple. Truthful. You're not worried about hiding anything.

She wipes at her eyes and smiles as if you've said something so much more wonderful amidst this tempest returning to sea for good.

"Yeah... I missed you, too, Maur."

...

..

.

 _Two Days Later_

 _._

It was beautiful as a funeral could ever be.

The set flowers, the service, the eloquent words. You know it was a bit over the top. Isabelle would have shied away from such complicatedness. None of this was your doing. It wasn't your place. Instead, it was Isabelle's mother, the woman you haven't seen in months consulting a funeral planner. She'd selected blue and purple floral arrangements, telling everyone who would listen that blue was her baby's favorite color.

Isabelle's favorite color was pink.

You wanted to be angry with her, to tell her that if she really loved her child she would have visited her more that the mere handful of times she bothered. She would _know_ her favorite color. But your anger disappeared in a flash as quickly as it had arisen. It was never about that woman... it was about the little girl who was a breath of life against all odds. The girl who loved everyone around her no matter what.

It was all about Isabelle.

And now that it's over, you sit in the third row wondering why you ever thought differently.

"Hey," Jane asks. You know she'll never truly know how much her being here means to you. You're moving slowly, but already, having her back in your life is absolutely amazing. "You doing okay?"

You're the only ones left in the viewing room. You would never guess, but you believe everyone else is returning to where they left off an hour and a half ago. You suppose you should be like them too, but there's one more thing you need to do.

"Maur?"

"I'm okay," you assure her as you take the hand she extends for you. She waits for you to lead the way out, allowing you to choose. You like that she's not rushing you, but you fear if she doesn't pull you out the door, you'll never find the heart to leave.

Your eyes trace back to the large photo beside her casket. As your mind creates some sort of context you feel the corner of your mouth turn upwards. She always used to tell you about her hair. How it made her a princess, but she could still be one without it too, it was just harder to keep the crown on. But you see her now. The light chestnut brown ringlets framing her face, her cheeks red. She looks happy. Elated. Perfect. You never knew her like that. When you met her, she was just another sick little girl.

And then she became your world.

It takes you a moment, but away the first step away, the second comes easier. Then the third. You link your arm through Jane's, grateful she's here. Close to you. Walking with you. Reminding you that some endings bring forth stumbled beginnings. She'll be there for you. You know she will.

"You really loved her, didn't you?"

You sneak one last glance over your shoulder at her picture, so full of love and life. You know you'll miss her, but you won't ever forget her. "I did. I loved her very much."

She nods. One day you'll tell her about her. But for right now, you think you'll just let her wonder.

 _Goodbye, Isabelle._

...

.

.

 _end_


End file.
